


Art Gangs and College Drop Outs

by thnksfrthevenom



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Apartment AU, Artists, Bandom - Freeform, Genderfluid, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2015-11-14
Packaged: 2018-05-01 16:20:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5212574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thnksfrthevenom/pseuds/thnksfrthevenom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A pretentious art squad starts a revolution while the others just want to figure out if Tyler and Josh are fucking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Art Gangs and College Drop Outs

**Author's Note:**

> This has been sitting in my drafts for months and I think its time this finally sees the light. I have a whole story planned out for this so hopefully I'll stick with it to the end

Pete Wentz considered himself the typical 24 year old failure. At first glance you might even mistake him for one. He wasn’t exactly white and that was enough for people to assume he was nothing. Nearly 10 years ago he had started a tantrum over the bullshit racism. Which leads to reason two on why you might think he was a bit disappointing. He was, by society’s standards, pretty damn unkept. His wardrobe was mostly dirty, torn, and black clothes he bought when he was 16. Not to mention the messily drawn and vaguely infected tattoos that splattered his body, marking a misspent youth. You may ask how that is enough to certify someone as a visible failure; its not. Pete didn’t consider the art that lived on his skin, or his own skin for that matter, to be any sort of reason to be considered a disappointment. No, he saw himself a failure in ways that you couldn't see. But if you crawled inside Mr. Wentz’s brain for a few days, got a good look around, and managed to escape unscathed you might begin to. In his opinion, he failed when the ambulance had to rush to a pissed stained, sex tainted ally. He failed when he couldn't seem to die. He failed at living and he failed at dying. But the most important thing to remember about Pete is that no matter how he sees himself, he is not a failure. 

~

Patrick Stump was walking. He didn’t normally walk, usually he would already be at the diner, his shiny bike tided to the pole outside. But today Patrick was walking. He had lost his “bike privileges” yesterday when for the umpteenth time he had slept through his shift. The irony that his only mode of transportation had been taken away in an attempt to get him to go somewhere wasn't lost on him. In fairness to his parents, there wasn't much they could take away from him at this point. 

Anyway he was walking and attempting to enjoy the cold, sharp smell of Chicago suburbia when he managed to trip over his own feet. He slammed into the concrete sidewalk, felt his glasses break underneath, and saw something warm and red dripping onto the ground. If he hadn't been stunned by his spectacular fall he would of gotten sick at the sight of his blood. He had always been squeamish about that sort of thing. 

“Fuck, man, that was amazing. Are you okay?” A sympathetic witness, prepare for the humiliation, Patrick thought bitingly. He turned slowly to look at the man that was inevitably going to fuss over him and bring him back to the doctor in disgrace when he realized he couldn't open his right eye. It was sealed shut by a sticky liquid that he didn't want to acknowledge. 

“Jesus christ that is a lot of blood. I’m going to need to bring you back to my place to properly clean you off.” Patrick was aware that going to a stranger’s house that he couldn't even see due to his obliterated glasses and scabby eye was not the best idea. But Patrick was the kind of boy that was addicted to tiny dangers. He had got into heavy metal after his bumbling country loving father had demonized it. He was 12 at the time and didn't even like it until much later but the elating rush that breaking the rules gave him was indescribable. He’d skip a class that he knew his parents valued. He just spent so much time locked away in his parent’s suburban dream that the chance to escape was always appealing. 

Regardless of the reason, Patrick let the handsome man guide him to his apartment a block away. The walk was silent and there was a thick tension that neither of them dared to break. Instead they walked to the same location with different missions. Patrick was leering out at the sidewalk, exhilarated by the older man’s kindness and flushed with relief that he would have a valid reason to get out of work. Pete had the way to his home memorized in his body. He didn't need to think about the direction so instead he let his mind dance over Patrick. 

He looked young, 19 at the oldest. He was shorter than Pete which was a remarkable accomplishment and instantly add to his Cool Points. He was wearing a silly camouflage hat that hid his peach like hair. He was a cute and Pete could tell he was well on the road to becoming handsome. He opened the door to his apartment still transfixed on the boy and completely failed to notice The Black Parade’s calling card sprayed on his moldy walls. Patrick, on the other hand, did not miss the giant paper sculpture of a corpse-like being crucified. 

“What the ever loving fuck?” Patrick asks, hoping that the loss of his glasses and the blood drying over his eye was somehow responsible for the bizarre image in front of him. 

“God dammit,” Pete said, “I’ll clean you up but then we’ve got a meeting to attend.” Patrick just stared at the wall and was too busy wishing he had his bike to fully understand the absurdity of the situation.


End file.
